


People Who Find Treasures

by kingdra (aroceu)



Series: July 2017 Advent Calendar [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 11:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11485359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroceu/pseuds/kingdra
Summary: “Of course not,” Hermione said. “We’ll recruit as many people as we can—I’m sure there are people who wouldn’t want Harry to teach him, people who think he’s still mad—”“Hey.”“It’s true, mate,” Ron said. “Even though you’ve saved the Wizarding World, there’s always going to be people who think you’re off your rocker. That’s what happens when you’re the—”





	People Who Find Treasures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [renaissance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/renaissance/gifts).



> For my advent calendar!

Hermione had been the one who wanted to go back. Harry did, too, but it was Hermione who insisted, who said to Ron, “We didn’t even finish our seventh year. We didn’t get our N.E.W.T.s!”  
  
“We don’t  _need_  our N.E.W.T.s,” Ron said. “We defeated You-Know-Who!”  
  
“Harry did,” Hermione reminded him. “And I know Kingsley offered you both Auror positions—congratulations, by the way—”  
  
“Congratulations but you want us to go back to  _school_.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” Harry said mildly. Ron shot him a betrayed look. “We’ve barely been done anything all year—”  
  
“Aside from  _saving the world_ ,” Ron said. “Honestly, I feel like I’m done with school—we’ve learned all we needed to know, especially Defence Against the Dark Arts—”  
  
“Well, if you’re going to be an Auror, you’ll need E’s on your Potions N.E.W.T.s,” Hermione pointed out. “Do you think you can get an E if you took the Potions N.E.W.T., Ron?”  
  
Ron shrunk back in his seat. They were eating lunch in Grimmauld Place, Sirius’s old house—Harry’s now, where he lived, by himself. Of course, Ron and Hermione refused to leave him alone in such a large dusty place with only Kreacher for company, so they’d visited nearly every day of the summer. Ginny did, too, but today she was helping George with the joke shop—she and Ron often switched off on it.  
  
Ron said, “I don’t need an E if I’ve already got the job, Hermione—”  
  
“But you’re not qualified if you don’t have the E,” Hermione shot back. “Harry wants to go back to Hogwarts, too,” and Ron looked at Harry with betrayal again, which Harry could only shrug at, “and Professor McGonagall sent us those letters, so if you don’t mind,  _we’re_  going to owl her back for the fall.”  
  
“Ugh, fine,” Ron said, when he saw that Harry was getting up with Hermione. “Harry, you can use Pig with me, it’ll give him a workout.”  
  
“Thanks,” Harry said. Hermione was attending to the school owl that had brought her own letter—McGonagall must’ve anticipated that Hermione would want to go back—and feeding it bits of her lunch out of her hand.  
  
Ron came up behind Hermione and said, “Thought you might’ve gone easy on the schoolwork since you started dating me.”  
  
“Not for anything,” Hermione said back, as Ron kissed her cheek. “So you’re coming back to Hogwarts with us?”  
  
“I won’t be terrible, Ron,” Harry said to him reassuringly. “Maybe we’ll have a decent Defence teacher this year.”  
  
*  
  
They didn’t.  
  
“I don’t want to blame it on Professor McGonagall…” Hermione said as they made their way into the Gryffindor common room together. They’d just finished dinner, and Harry yawned hugely as he thought of his four-poster bed and smiled. His bed at Grimmauld Place wasn’t the most comfortable; he’d found an empty room that didn’t seem to have any curses lingering about and set it up as his own room. It was still terribly lonely and dark when he was asleep, and being back at Hogwarts amidst excited first years, pranking fifth years, and stressed seven years was much more of a comfort.  
  
Ron said, slumping into one of the plush armchairs by the fire, “I don’t even think McGonagall recruited the teachers this year. Since the Ministry—”  
  
“Yeah, it was the Ministry,” Harry said. He’d heard about it when he’d conferred with Kingsley about being an Auror after his official seventh—or technically, eighth—year at school. “They’re finding teachers without any backgrounds in dark magic—even for Defence Against the  _Dark Arts_.”  
  
“You don’t even need to have a background in dark magic to teach Defence,” Hermione said, squishing into the seat with Ron. Ron squirmed and wrapped his arm around Hermione, and Harry just looked on with amusement. “Just any experience at all.”  
  
“We’ve got a second Binns,” Ron said scornfully, flicking his wand toward the fire. It danced with figures of unicorns—a trick Hermione had taught him over the summer. “Speaking of which, why hasn’t  _he_  been sacked yet?”  
  
“Probably because this school needs all the help it can get,” Harry muttered, staring at Ron’s fire unicorn. “Even from ghosts.”  
  
“Not that  _we_  need Defence training,” Hermione said, “but what about all the other students? Don't they need a proper teacher?”  
  
A thought occurred to Harry, and he and Ron exchanged a look.  
  
*  
  
It was haunting, coming back into the Room of Requirement, which was trying so hard to repair itself. Its magic still worked when Harry, Ron, and Hermione paced by it, but with pieces from the Room of Hidden Things materialising and vanishing every so often, burnt tapestries and sometimes the sound of Fiendfyre echoing like a ghost.  
  
“This is creepy,” Ron said, as they inspected it. “It makes the Shrieking Shack look like a manor. It makes Harry’s house look like the Burrow.”  
  
“It’s not that bad,” Hermione said, trying to be optimistic. “And we can always make more space—” she squeaked as a spider scuttled by, and both she and Ron stuck behind Harry until it disappeared.  
  
Harry said, “I don’t know what to do with either of you.”  
  
“Does the wishing thing still work?” Ron asked, and concentrated for a moment. A minute later, a blanket appeared, and he covered a burnt away portrait that had just materialised a few minutes ago. “There. We can just cover everything.”  
  
A second later, the portrait disappeared and the blanket fluttered to the ground.  
  
“We’ll make it work,” Hermione said bracingly. “Everyone else has got to learn Defence—”  
  
“Are we teaching the first years, too?” Harry asked.  
  
“We’re teaching the  _whole school_?” Ron said.  
  
“Of course not,” Hermione said. “We’ll recruit as many people as we can—I’m sure there are people who wouldn’t want Harry to teach him, people who think he’s still mad—”  
  
“Hey.”  
  
“It’s true, mate,” Ron said. “Even though you’ve saved the Wizarding World, there’s always going to be people who think you’re off your rocker. That’s what happens when you’re the—”  
  
“Don’t,” Harry warned.  
  
“—Boy Who Lived.”  
  
Ron smirked, and Harry hexed him with a Stinging Jinx. Ron yelped and fired the Tickling Charm at him.  
  
Hermione  _Accio_ ’d both of their wands silently and tucked them up her sleeve.  
  
“Boys,” she said, ending both their spells and glaring at them while Harry clenched his already aching gut, Ron rubbing his nose. “Focus. If we’re going to teach eight years of students Defence—”  
  
“Or how about we just teach the seventh and eighth years?” Ron said. “There’s less of us, and with the curse on the Defence post still there, I’m sure everyone else will get a decent Defence teacher at  _some_  point in their lives.”  
  
“That’s a good idea,” Harry said hurriedly, because he was not up to teaching eight hundred students how to fire a Stunner.  
  
Hermione huffed and said, “I was  _thinking_  about hiring other people to help us and to take turns, but fine, if you think that’s more doable—”  
  
“It’s what won’t kill us,” Ron said. “Come on, Hermione, even if the Slytherins don’t care about being in the D.A., there’s still a lot—”  
  
“Wait,” Hermione said. “You’re thinking about inviting the Slytherins?”  
  
“They’re still students,” Ron said reluctantly, rolling his eyes. “And they might say no, but just because they’re snakes doesn’t mean they can’t learn from us.”  
  
The look on Hermione’s face highly suggested that she might pull the same thing she had done when Ron had wanted to rescue the house elves from the war—meaning, that Hermione and Ron would start snogging again. Which Harry didn’t mind under any other circumstance, aside from when they were discussing something important, like a war or the future of every other student in Hogwarts.  
  
Ron just said to Hermione, “Don’t tell me I was thinking of asking the Slytherins and  _you_  weren’t—”  
  
“Of course not,” Hermione said. “I’m just—me too—”  
  
“Right,” Harry said loudly, before Hermione flung herself at him or something. “So we can give everyone a signal with the Galleons, but if we  _are_  asking the Slytherins, how should we do that?”  
  
“Tomorrow at breakfast, I think,” Hermione said. “I’ll ask the seventh years, you can ask the eighth years.”  
  
Harry sputtered. “But—Malfoy’s back at the school, too—”  
  
“So?” Hermione said, and Harry and Ron exchanged an incredulous look. “Harry, you took on Voldemort, and you want to avoid an eighteen-year old boy just because you don’t like him?”  
  
Harry merely grumbled in response.  
  
“It’s okay, mate,” Ron said, as they made their way out of the Room. Hermione spelled away as many scrapes and burns as she could, but still a number of them came back. “Who knows, he might say no.”  
  
*  
  
“Sure,” Malfoy said the next day at breakfast.  
  
Harry stared at him. Beside him, Ron was staring, too. Hermione was working on the seventh years, had actually sat down next to them and was making conversation. Harry and Ron were merely hovering around where Malfoy, Goyle, Nott, Parkinson, and Greengrass were sitting, trying to avoid eye contact and mostly looking at the edge of the table.  
  
But right now, Malfoy had answered Harry’s announcement of, “Well, er, this is kind of—Well, we’re starting a club since the Defence teacher is shit, and we were wondering, er, if any of you were interested in joining.” Harry had delivered in the least persuasive way possible, but Malfoy was poking at his bacon innocently after his own response.  
  
Parkinson glanced at Malfoy, then said to Harry, “What Draco means is—”  
  
“Yes,” Malfoy said.  
  
“Which he  _really_  means, is—”  
  
“We will go,” Malfoy said again.  
  
“We will?” Nott sneered. “I don’t recall you speaking for all of us.”  
  
“Well,” Greengrass piped up, to some of Harry’s surprise. He’d never really particularly talked to her before; by the smile she flitted to Harry before returning to her classmates, he figured that she was alright. “We do want to get our education in, and here Potter’s offering to teach us something that he’s clearly good at—”  
  
“By a matter of luck,” Malfoy muttered.  
  
Harry opened his mouth to protest, but Ron elbowed him and jerked his head pointedly. Harry was struck by the memory of a few years ago, when he was bellowing to Ron and Hermione that the only way he managed to save his skin over and over again was by luck—he was in no position to try to argue with Malfoy.  
  
But Parkinson was saying, “But it’s  _Potter_. How do we know that they’re not plotting something?”  
  
“Are you plotting something?” Greengrass asked Ron.  
  
Ron said, with bewilderment, “No.”  
  
Greengrass turned to Parkinson. “There.”  
  
“Well, I’m not going to go, just because Draco said we would,” Nott said. “He’s not speaking for me.”  
  
“Have fun with Professor Dutchherst, then,” Greengrass said. She turned to Harry. “Is your club still called Dumbledore’s Army, though? No offence, but I think it’s not relevant anymore. Dumbledore doesn’t need an army.”  
  
“No shit,” Malfoy muttered.  
  
Harry and Ron glanced at him, and then Harry said, “No, I—we can change it.” He hadn’t really thought about it, and Hermione hadn’t brought it up, and he wasn’t even sure if they were going to name the club again. But Greengrass was the most decent Slytherin so far, and he didn’t want to scare her away.  
  
Greengrass smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. “You can go now.” She waved them off and turned back around, where Parkinson immediately accosted her in a low voice.  
  
As Harry and Ron made their way back around and to the Gryffindor table, Harry caught the sound of Malfoy’s voice saying, “You’re coming with us.” There was a low grunt—Goyle—and then Malfoy saying, “Come on, eat something.”  
  
“That was weird,” Ron said, as they walked past the Ravenclaw table. “That Greengrass girl—she’s odd.”  
  
“You know what was odd? Malfoy,” Harry said. “Why did he say yes?”  
  
“Maybe he really does want to learn Defence,” Ron joked.  
  
“Or maybe he wants to sabotage us,” Harry said darkly. A part of him didn’t really believe it, though—Malfoy had seemed far too occupied keeping to himself that Harry doubted he cared about making fun of Harry anymore.  
  
Ron seemed to think the same, because he said, “I don’t think Malfoy’s  _that_  good of an actor. Maybe he was just saying it to get us to leave.”  
  
“Maybe they won’t show up,” Harry said hopefully.  
  
*  
  
The Ravenclaws came first—Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, Padma Patil, and Terry Boot, along with a few of their eighth year classmates, since Hermione had added a note that they were allowed to bring any other eighth- or seventh-year with them.  
  
Luna came in later with Ginny, who’s brought in a slew of her friends and beamed at Harry when she entered. Harry’s heart skipped and he made a mental note to talk to her later—they’d barely had time to recoup since May, over the summer, since school started, Harry busy with something or other, or Ginny otherwise. Being back in school was just like sixth year, except without worrying about Horcruxes it was just them and homework and Quidditch.  
  
The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs came next, before the Slytherin seventh years slunk in. Hermione went to greet them immediately, while Harry and Ron stood around, talking to Terry and Ernie. In a corner, Luna was asking Lavender about her werewolf scars, while Dean, Neville, and Seamus were doing their best to decorate the Room and making it less eerie. Anthony Goldstein and Zacharias Smith were arguing something about Quidditch by the fireplace.  
  
Ron stole a glance to the entrance and said to Harry, “They might not come.”  
  
Harry nodded. He wasn’t sure if he hoped so or not—on one hand, it would be expected. But on the other hand, with the war all behind them, it seemed pointless to continue a petty rivalry after Harry, well, died.  
  
Hermione called for silence, and a hush fell over the room. “Alright,” Hermione said, pleased. “Since everyone’s here, I suppose we’ll get started—”  
  
“Without us, Granger?” came Parkinson’s voice, as the door to the Room opened.  
  
The five Slytherin eighth years appeared in the doorway—all heads in the Room turned toward them. There was a brief moment of discomfort, until Hermione quickly went, “No, no, we were waiting for you, that’s all! We’re so glad to see you here, um—Parkinson, Malfoy, Goyle—”  
  
“No need to go around to all of us,” Greengrass said, cocking her head at Hermione. Hermione fidgeted, like a bug that was being examined under a giant microscope.  
  
“Well, we’re glad to see you!” Hermione said, perhaps a bit too brightly. “Come in, come in—”  
  
“So what are we learning today?” Malfoy asked, bored.  
  
Hermione closed the door behind them and took a deep breath. She looked across the way at Harry, nodding at him. Harry spoke up.  
  
“Patronuses,” he said. “It’s difficult magic, but some of us have done it before—some of us are still working on it—” he grinned at some of the former D.A. members from his fifth year “—so we can help.”  
  
“Not everyone can make a Patronus,” Goyle said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him, but Goyle didn’t seem deterred. “That’s what I heard from my—”  
  
He stopped talking, turning very red and shuffled his feet.  
  
Hermione said to him kindly, “That’s not necessarily true. But I’ll let Harry teach you how to do that.”  
  
“And everyone can make a Patronus,” Harry said, “if you really try.”  
  
He, Ron, and Hermione explained the Patronus Charm to the whole room—it was supposed to be really Harry doing the teaching, but then Ron was adding all sorts of examples when he’d had to use his Patronus and how he might've struggled, and Hermione was chiming in with suggestions of the best memories to use.  
  
It wasn’t before Malfoy interrupted, “Are you going to keep on talking or will we actually get a chance to practice the charm?” There was a small cough, like someone was trying to hide a laugh.  
  
“Oh,” Hermione said, blushing, while Harry said, “We’re getting there,” and Ron said, “Shut up, Malfoy.”  
  
Malfoy just shrugged and crossed his arms.  
  
But Hermione rushed and said, “No, no, he’s right—okay, everyone spread out!”  
  
Everyone scattered, and Harry started off with a demonstration. “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” he shouted, thinking of the feeling he’d had when he’d stepped in Hogwarts again and felt more at home than anywhere else. Immediately the stag sprung from his wand, coming over to let Harry stroke its flank, before galloping around the room and nudging at Ginny and Neville and Luna.  
  
Ron and Hermione summoned their own Patronuses, the Jack Russell terrier chasing the otter between everyone’s legs.  
  
“It’s much harder than it looks,” Harry assured them, as everyone regarded their Patronuses with admiration, even the eighth year Slytherins. “Getting just an uncorporeal Patronus will be impressive for today.”  
  
“Thank you for all the confidence you have in us,” Greengrass said wryly from where she was standing next to Parkinson.  
  
They all began to practice, exclamations of, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” echoing around the room. Harry walked between them, while he saw some of the other former D.A. members show their classmates their Patronuses, who ran around the room happily. Harry went down and helped some of the seventh years with their wandwork, telling them, “Pick a memory that  _really_ makes you happy, that makes you smile when you think about it,” and watched as they tried with all their might to make their wands burst with something.  
  
“You’ll get it,” Harry told the room at large, striding along with Ginny’s horse, and Luna’s hare. “We’re all capable of happiness.”  
  
“Easy for a Gryffindor to say,” Malfoy said, as Harry passed him.  
  
But Malfoy’s tone was light and he’d formed something silvery at the end of his wand, like a thin stream of smoke, appearing and disappearing after a second. It was only for a moment, but Harry saw it, saw the surprised look on Malfoy’s face, how pleased he looked with himself afterward. Harry wanted to say something to him, maybe congratulate him, but—they didn’t do that.  
  
Harry filed the moment away for later. He wondered what Malfoy’s Patronus might be.  
  
He joined Hermione and Ron at the other end of the room, who were watching seventh years exclaim about how they’d gotten an uncorporeal form out of their wands. They were showing them off to each other, making Harry realise how much he missed having a normal life—how much he really was looking forward to this year.  
  
“I think this is a good group,” he said to Ron and Hermione, who beamed at him.  
  
“Even with the Slytherins,” Ron agreed, and Hermione rolled her eyes.  
  
“At least everyone’s getting their education,” she said, and Ron elbowed her.  
  
Harry just grinned at the both of them, and felt right at home.


End file.
